


To Feel Your Touch

by Shellysbees



Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Kidlock, Star!John, Starjohn, Teenlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-05
Updated: 2014-02-10
Packaged: 2018-01-11 06:08:41
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 11,549
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1169610
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shellysbees/pseuds/Shellysbees
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John falls to earth after Sherlock makes a wish, but they quickly run into problems.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by http://inchells.tumblr.com/post/75460866145/star-john-finding-some-of-sandmans-dust-in-the inchells lovely starjohn art. 
> 
> StarJohn is shootbadcabbies on tumblr and the original idea for sandmanlock being involved came from navydreams. My sandman isn't seen, but is actually, in my mind, a more classic sandman.
> 
> This was only going to be one chapter. I was going to end it exactly as it is now, but beltainfaerie convinced me otherwise. She is a lovely beta and I really need to bake her cookies or something. (seriously)

Neither of them would ever forget the day John was brought into the world. Sherlock was only six at the time. Part of John remembers the countless years he spent alone up in the sky, but he had no idea how old he really was, only that he was small, like Sherlock.

His time in the sky hadn’t been lonely, not really anyways. He’d been a part of something so big and beautiful. Besides, John had never known love or friendship, so he had no way to know what he was missing. 

Everything was silent, still, perfect. That was until that small voice reached across the sky to John. He didn’t understand. All he knew was that he was tumbling through the darkness. He was small and fragile, and before he could call out for help another boy was there. Those brilliant, bright eyes looking down at him in complete wonder, _and John knew._

John.

That was the name Sherlock had given him. His Sherlock. His friend. 

He’d known immediately that this boy was important. Sherlock’s happiness was all that mattered to John. They’d both been so cautious that first night, until finally Sherlock reached out a hand to help John up. The moment their hands touched everything was ruined. 

“Ow!” Sherlock yelped, falling back away from him. John could feel his fear and pain like it had been his own. He tried to help him, but Sherlock just scrambled away. It took a bit of coaxing for Sherlock to realize that John hadn’t meant to hurt him. When he’d backed away the little boy showed him the bright red burn John had left across his hand. A small, painful, handprint wrapping around his own. They were very careful after that. 

That was the only mark that never seemed to fade. Any other times they accidentally touched were never as bad as that first time. At night, before Sherlock finally gave in and went to bed, he’d hold up the scarred hand, waiting for John to mirror him. It scared John, he didn’t like getting so close to hurting Sherlock, but in the end he would slowly hold his hand up to Sherlock’s. 

They’d stay like that for a minute sometimes, with their hands barely a hair away from each other’s. Sherlock always said he couldn’t feel the fire. Every once and a while he’d let one of their fingers touch on purpose, just to see if it still hurt. 

It always did.

John was a star, they knew that much. Sherlock used his brother’s books to look up a star. Fire and gas, that’s all he was. Sherlock said he didn’t care. 

\---

“I don’t burn anything else,” John pointed out one night. With the curtains drawn he seemed to light up the whole room. Sherlock loved to use John’s light to read through the night.

“Hm?” Sherlock asked, looking up from his book. 

John reached out and put his hand flat on the top of the book. Nothing happened. “If I’m fire, why do I only hurt you?”

“Why can’t anyone else see you?” Sherlock said. He didn’t seem to want an answer to the question, as he went right back to reading. John figured that was his answer.  
\---

It did come up again, quite a few times actually. It seemed as though he grew hotter and more dangerous the longer he was around Sherlock. John no longer belonged to the universe, but to Sherlock. He revolved around the young boy. Sherlock was his universe now. 

That’s why, after two years, and no less than ten accidents that left Sherlock hurt in some way or another, John left to return to the stars. 

Sherlock cried when John told him. He hadn’t cried any of the times he’d been burnt, but, as John explained that he’d be safer with him gone and that he’d always be watching over him, tears ran down the small boy’s face.

Sherlock held up his small hand, waiting for John to return the gesture as he had so many times before, but John couldn’t do it. A few tears fell from his own cheeks, staining the comforter with his own star dust.

The last thing he heard before he fled from the room, and up into the sky, was Sherlock’s shattered voice, much like the one that had called out to him that first night. 

_”Don’t go.”_

\---

John wasn’t able to go far. He couldn’t find his way around the sky anymore and the farther he went from Sherlock, the more he missed him. It was like a gnawing hole in his chest that festered and grew with every inch between them.

He had never felt sadness or pain like that. All he’d ever wanted was to make Sherlock happy and to keep him safe, but he couldn’t even do that. 

In the end, John spent his nights wandering the skies above Sherlock’s home. He could feel Sherlock searching for him every night, and every night he had to fight from going back to him. He thought that if Sherlock could just forget about him, then maybe he’d be happy again. 

One night, as if someone had heard his cries, he came across the most amazing discovery. A trail of golden dust. 

Carefully John reached one hand out, running his fingers through it gently. As it swirled through the air he felt the magic of the sandman’s dust rush through him and he knew what to do. Gathering up as much of the dust as he could John held it in his hands tightly and flew down to Sherlock. 

He was asleep already. 

John quietly found a jar from under his bed, one he’d filled with sand from the beach, and dumped it out in the carpet so he could save the magic dust. It swirled inside of the jar. Taking the tiniest pinch in my hands he sprinkled over Sherlock and himself. He closed his eyes tight and willed himself to go to sleep and slip into the dream he’d made for them. 

\---

“John?”

The blonde spun on the spot. They were on a pirate ship, alone, and Sherlock was staring at him with wonder. 

“You’re not glowing.”

John looked down at his hands, turning them over almost as if checking if Sherlock was right. He was. All his star dust was gone, he looked completely normal. 

“Is it really you?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaking as he stepped closer to John.

“Yeah,” John said, nodding vigorously. “I found some of the sandman’s dust… It’s magic, so I can give you good dreams and see you.”

Sherlock’s lip quivered, but he didn’t reply. Slowly he raised his hand, holding it out for John. Terrified, John lifted his own hand. This was a dream, he couldn’t hurt Sherlock, he had to believe that. 

Sherlock was the one to close the space between them, their hands coming together with a small clap. 

“Does it hurt?” John asked wondrously. Sherlock’s gaze slowly moved from their hands to John’s blue eyes before he did the one thing he’d wanted to do for over two years. He pulled his best friend into a hug, holding him closely. 

“No,” He murmured against John’s shoulder. “It doesn’t.”


	2. Chapter 2

It quickly became normal. Each night after Sherlock went to bed, John would pull the small jar from where he’d hidden it, so they could dream together. He always waited until he was sure Sherlock was asleep. John wasn’t sure why, but he knew it was very important that Sherlock didn’t have it. 

At first their dreams were on the pirate ship John had seen that first day. Sherlock taught him how to move the sails to guide them through the ocean. Most nights they were pirates, sailing through the seas in search of treasure. 

John even met Redbeard. 

Redbeard had run away just after John had left, but he still visited Sherlock’s dreams. John was glad for that. Whenever Redbeard visited, Sherlock would light up with excitement, glowing almost more than John did. He never wanted it to end.

The dream seemed to pick up each night where they left off, and when they’d tired of sailing, a little island appeared off in the distance. By the next night, they’d built themselves a clubhouse on the beach. 

“Why doesn’t anyone else visit us?” John asked one night. He was sitting in the sand watching Sherlock play fetch with Redbeard on the beach. They’d been sharing dreams for nearly two months and he’d yet to see another soul on their little island.

“I don’t want to see anyone else,” Sherlock said simply, throwing the stick out towards the water.

“But before, what did you dream about before?” 

Sherlock looked confused, his nose scrunching up slightly as he turned around. “Nothing. I didn’t have anything to dream about.”

“Oh,” John breathed, pulling his legs up to his chest. They were silent for a moment, the rise and fall of the waves was the only sound in their world. That was until Redbeard came bounding up, barking at Sherlock to throw the stick again, but he didn’t. 

They could just see the edge of the sun poking over the blue of the ocean. Sherlock let out a sad sigh, shaking his head. 

“I don’t want to leave,” he said, his voice barely above a whisper. 

John clambered to his feet, holding his hand up in their familiar gesture. “We’ll come back tomorrow,” he assured Sherlock. 

“Promise?” Sherlock asked.

“Promise.”

Sherlock grinned, pressing his palm against John’s and intertwining their fingers together. 

\---

“NO!”

Sherlock’s scream carried through the large house, and John’s stomach dropped so quickly he nearly fell to the floor. _Sherlock._ The glitter John had been playing with fell to the ground once his attention was focused elsewhere. He moved to the the door, listening carefully. 

He couldn’t just go walking about the house, even though no one else could see him. Last time he had done that Sherlock had run over to him and started talking, as though everything was normal. His parents had talked about him going away after that. So instead, John cracked the door open and listened carefully. 

His mother said something unintelligible, but Sherlock’s response soared through the air clearly. “NO! I’m not going back there. I. Want. John.”

It felt as though there was someone squeezing the air out of him. John could barely stop himself from running down the stairs to Sherlock. Of course there was little he could do now, not in the real world. Biting his lip John curled into a ball beside the door and continued to listen, waiting for his Sherlock to come upstairs. 

They kept him down there for what felt like hours, though the yelling did eventually stop, and when Sherlock finally came upstairs John saw what had happened. One eye was surrounded by a deep bruise, and his lip was cracked open. 

“Sherlock…” John started, one hand reaching out despite the fact that he knew he couldn’t do anything to help.

“Where’s the dream stuff?” Sherlock asked him, closing the door tightly behind him.

“What happened?” John asked. He was still in shock. Someone had done this to his Sherlock. Had it been other children, like them? Why would they do such a thing?

“The sand, John!” Sherlock all but yelled. There were tears brimming in his eyes and his hands were shaking at his sides. “Please, where is it?”

John pointed to the toy chest that Sherlock never bothered to go in. Sherlock turned on the spot to start digging through the chest, and John followed after him nervously.

“Be careful,” John said softly, looking over Sherlock’s shoulder as he opened the jar. “We only have a little bit.”

Sherlock didn’t listen. Reaching his little hand into the jar he scooped up as much of the magical dust as he could before putting the rest away. He kept it closed tightly in his fist until he was lying on his bed looking at John. Leaving plenty of space between them John climbed up on the bed with him. Sherlock opened his hand and started sprinkling the golden dust over the both of them. 

_Too much._

John knew it was too much, far too much. He wasn’t sure how he knew but he did, and he had no idea what it would do or how he would fix whatever it did. The most he’d ever used was a pinch for the both of them. Before he could even consider what the consequences might be he felt himself being pulled into Sherlock’s mind.

In the dream, Sherlock didn’t have a black eye. He was dressed the same as John always was, in loose pain white trousers and a white shirt. They almost looked like pyjamas. His eyes were brimming with tears and he was shaking from the effort it took to not cry. 

“Sherlock what happened?” John asked quietly, his voice echoing in the emptiness of their dream. 

Sherlock didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Instead he fell forward, his thin arms wrapping around John’s shoulders and tugging him down to the ground where they sat in the warm sand together. 

“Don’t make me go back,” Sherlock sobbed against John’s shoulder. “Please, I don’t want to leave you again.”

John still didn’t understand, but he wrapped his arms around Sherlock and promised that he wouldn’t leave Sherlock. _Never again._


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock still wouldn't tell John what had happened. All John knew for sure was that someone had hurt Sherlock, and that he didn't want to go back. When the sun started to rise over the ocean that morning Sherlock sat in the sand with Redbeard’s stick, burying it in the sand.

"What you doing?" John asked. Sherlock had barely said anything the entire night. 

"What does it look like I'm doing?" Sherlock spat without looking back at John

"Why are you burying Redbeard's stick? He's going to want that when he comes back!"

"He's not coming back!" Sherlock said. He was gripping the stick hard enough that his knuckles turned white and it looked like he might start crying again. John hurried across the sand to where Sherlock was sitting.

"What do you mean?"

Sherlock glared down at the stick in his hands, as if it was the stick’s fault that any of this was happening. He took a shaky breath and shook his head. “Mycroft told me…" Sherlock's voice trailed off and a few tears slipped down his cheek. When he spoke again his voice was shaky and broken. "I was so stupid. I thought he'd come back, I wanted him to come back, John!"

Little John threw his arms around Sherlock’s shoulders, he didn't know what else to do. His only friend in the world was hurt, and he had no way to fix it. Sherlock turned in towards John, wrapping his arms around him and burying his face against his neck. John could just make out Sherlock's words through the sobs.

"They killed him, John. He was sick and nobody told me and they made him sleep forever.” The rest of his words were lost as he openly cried against John’s shoulder.

The sun rose that morning and neither of them woke.

\---

The days came and went, until the boys had almost forgotten that there was a world outside of their own. 

The clubhouse grew and took over almost the entire island, a castle all their own. Anything they wanted or needed just seemed to appear, and when they tired of building their castle they went on adventures. Sherlock taught John how to read treasure maps and the world continued to grow with them. Still, there was a nagging voice in the back of John's mind that said something wasn't right.

They were sitting around a fire on the beach eating Sherlock’s favorite, fish and chips, when they heard it. A voice. It was gentle and sweet, and the words were undeniable.

_"Sherlock, sweetie, come back to us. Please."_

They froze, fear and uncertainty flooding them both. Still, the voice was familiar. It took John a few moments to place it.

"Wait…" John said slowly, his head cocking to the side as he looked at Sherlock. "Isn't that your mum?"

The little color left in Sherlock's face drained quickly. He shook his head, muttering, “No.”

"Are you sure?" John asked looking around to see where the voice came from.

"It's not her," Sherlock said sharply.

They didn’t talk about it after that, but soon the voices grew louder. His mum, his dad, and even Mycroft, until the voices grew so loud that even Sherlock couldn’t pretend that he didn’t hear them. 

“GO AWAY!” Sherlock screamed into the sky. He wasn’t crying this time. He hadn’t cried since they’d buried Redbeard’s stick that first day. 

“I don’t think they can hear you,” John whispered from behind Sherlock.

“Why not?”

“You’re sleeping, Sherlock… How many days has it been?”

Sherlock thought for a moment. They hadn’t tried to keep track, but weeks had past by them at the very least. 

“Why don’t I go see what they want?” John offered when Sherlock didn’t answer. He still felt like something was wrong. Was Sherlock supposed to sleep this long?

Sherlock shook his head petulantly, his eyes squeezing shut as his hair bounced back and forth. 

“Why not? I’ll be back.”

Sherlock blinked rapidly and bit at his quivering lip, like he couldn’t seem to put any words together. 

“I don’t want to be alone,” he said finally. 

John smiled softly, closing the gap between them so he could pull Sherlock into a hug. He’d almost forgotten what it had been like to not be able to do this, to reach out and comfort his friend. 

“I’ll be right back Sherlock. I promise.” 

Swallowing around the lump in his throat Sherlock nodded. He squeezed John once more before stepping back. John gave him a small wave before dissipating from the beach.

\---

When John was back in the real world he found himself very confused. They weren’t in Sherlock’s room any more. Instead they were in a bright white room with beeping computers. Sherlock was there, on a small white bed with cords and tubes running all over him. The fat lip and black eye were gone, only to be replaced by a deathly pale glow and the horrible sounds of the machines he was connected to. For a few moments John could do little more than stare at Sherlock’s fragile body. 

When he finally did look around, he saw Sherlock’s brother asleep in one of the chairs. A few moments later there was a knock at the door and a stranger walked in. 

“Morning, dear,” she chimed at Mycroft, bustling over to Sherlock. She immediately started touching him, John would have done anything at that moment to make her stop. “Where are your parents?” she continued when the older teen had pulled himself awake.

“Father’s back at work,” Mycroft drawled, rubbing his eyes and standing to move closer to Sherlock. “Mother just went to grab us something to eat. I didn’t want to leave.”

She sighed heavily. Apparently content with whatever the machines had said about Sherlock’s body, she turned her attention to Mycroft. “We’re doing the best we can for your brother. You need to take care of yourself. When was the last time you slept in a bed?”

“The doctor said there’s nothing wrong with him. He could wake up at any time.” Mycroft’s voice was terse.

“He could-”

“But that chance get’s farther away with every moment he lies here doesn’t it?” Mycroft snapped, cutting her off. “I’m not a child. I understand. If and when he wakes up, I want to be here.”

“Of course,” she muttered, her cheeks flushing slightly despite how unbothered she acted. “If you want to get some better sleep come find me before my shift ends and I’ll see if we can’t spare an extra cot tonight.”

“Thank you,” Mycroft said softly. He seemed to relax at that, now that she wasn’t trying to kick him out. 

Without another word, she left the room, leaving Mycroft and Sherlock alone with an invisible John. He watched as Mycroft dragged his chair to the edge of Sherlock’s bed and grasped his small hand between both of his. 

“Come on, little brother,” Mycroft murmured under his breath. “I know you’re in there. It’s time to wake up.”

John felt sick, and he wasn’t sure if it was because of what he was seeing, or if it was because of his connection to Sherlock. Either way he couldn’t take any more.

\---

The moment he reappeared on the beach Sherlock ran to him, throwing his arms around John’s neck tightly, as though he’d honestly expected John to leave forever. 

“It’s okay,” John assured him. His heart was thrumming in his chest. For the first time he realized that the sun wasn’t as bright as it once had been. Their world was dying with them inside it. “I told you I wouldn’t leave you, but Sherlock you have to go back. You need to wake up.”

Sherlock pulled away quickly, shaking his head. “No. No, John. I told you, I’m not going back there.”

“You have to. Sherlock, you’re sick. I saw your brother and he was sad. They want you back.”

Tears welled in Sherlock’s eyes and he shook his head defiantly. “NO!” he screamed, “No! I don’t want to wake up.”

“But this,” John gestured around them wildly. “All of it. It’s not real Sherlock.”

The air seemed to quiver around them, as if Sherlock had been ignoring that one simple fact. 

“You _need_ to wake up, Sherlock. Please.”

Sherlock took a shaky breath, but didn’t shake his head this time. “They made Redbeard sleep forever, John. I just wanted to stay with you and Redbeard.”

“But he’s not here anymore,” John said quietly. “And I won’t leave you. I’ll be there for you when we wake up.”

Lacing his hand through John’s Sherlock nodded, tears streaming down his face. John smiled softly, leaning up on his toes to kiss the tip of Sherlock’s nose. He knew once the dream ended he wouldn’t be able to touch Sherlock again. Darkness slowly engulfed their island, the dream finally ending.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sherlock wakes up. The moon gives John her guidance. Nothing will ever be the same.

Later that day, while Sherlock was being checked by doctors and his family, John went back to his home and let the rest of the dream dust go. He had told Sherlock he would when everyone else had been too busy to pay attention. It seemed coming back had taken what little fight had been left in Sherlock away, because he’d just nodded and agreed with the plan. That was the first night the moon talked to John. 

It was the voice that had told him not to give Sherlock the dream dust, and the one that had said they’d used too much that last time. The only difference was that he could hear it much better now. 

When Sherlock finally fell asleep, John flew up to the roof of the hospital, following the comforting voice that’d been calling to him all evening. 

He spent the night listening to the moon. It was more of a feeling than an actual embodied voice, but it was soothing, almost familiar. She promised that Sherlock would be okay, that things would work out in the end if John just trusted her. 

He was her little star, and he’d been sent to this world, to Sherlock, for a reason. He just had to be patient 

\---

It hadn’t taken long for John to understand what had happened. People definitely weren’t supposed to sleep that long, and it had made Sherlock very sick. The first few days he didn’t even talk, though he did try to, and he slept so much that John was scared he wouldn’t wake up again. 

Everyone else talked a lot when Sherlock was sleeping. They’d been dreaming together for ten days before Sherlock finally woke up. Apparently that meant he couldn’t have anything other than juice, and sometimes they couldn’t even get him to eat that.

When Sherlock finally found his voice again he started asking when he’d would go home, and every day the doctors that checked on him said soon. Soon ended up being almost a month. 

John had really expected Sherlock to start talking to him before they finally went home, but he didn’t. To be fair, someone else had almost always been in the room, and up until the last week Sherlock had hardly even been awake. It wasn’t until his parents left him to sleep in his own room for the first time again that John really knew something was wrong. 

“Sherlock?” John said, quietly dropping to the floor and walking towards the bed. He’d grown so used to walking with Sherlock that it still felt odd to fly. 

Sherlock tensed, but ignored him, climbing into bed and pulling the blankets up to his chin. 

“Did I do something wrong? Sherlock, you had to wake up. It was making you sick!” 

Still, nothing. John felt like something was being torn from his chest. It had been over a month since Sherlock had said anything to him and the entire time John had been convincing himself that it would be better when they were alone, that Sherlock wouldn’t forget him, but it wasn’t. 

Hot, glowing tears rolled down his face as he stood at the end of the bed. He’d have taken anything, even Sherlock being angry and hating him, over this. 

“SHERLOCK!” John yelled, his voice hoarse with the sobs he was just managing to hold back. He saw small hands tighten around the edge of the blanket, but that was it. 

John lingered for a moment more, silently wishing for a way to turn back time and stop any of this from happening, before flying away. 

With no where else to go, John went to the roof and cried his frustrations beneath the light of the moon. 

“Why me?” John asked when he’d calmed down enough to speak. “Why couldn’t I have just stayed in the sky like everyone else?”

The answer was clear and resounding.

_You’re his star, John. He needs you to guide him._

That didn’t make sense. How could he guide Sherlock to do anything if he pretended he didn’t exist? As soon as the thought crossed his mind, the voice was back, answering him.

_You need to give it time. He needs to heal, and you need to grow. Your fire’s burning too brightly for him right now, little star. You have to learn to control it._

John hadn’t noticed when the tears had stopped, but they had. Something about the voice washing through him was making him more sure that things would be okay in the end.

“What do I do?”

\---

Sherlock still didn’t go back to school for a few more weeks, but John didn’t push him to talk. He said hello every day, and he waited. More importantly, he practiced. At the end of the second week he finally manage to do it. 

He stared in wonder at the paper he’d managed to scorch on Sherlock’s desk. He was so excited that he almost forgot that he was being ignored. When he heard the familiar footfall behind him he spun around, holding the paper up to show Sherlock what he’d done. 

Sherlock looked at him for long moment, which was a considerable improvement, before snatching the paper away from him, crumpling it up and throwing it away. When Sherlock left the room John quickly pulled it back out, flattening it out carefully to keep as much of the scorched paper as he could. Folding it up, John stashed it away in the bottom of the toy box. Sherlock never looked there anyways, and it felt like a little accomplishment, he couldn’t just let Sherlock throw it away.

\---

As long as Sherlock was at home John made it a point not to follow him around. Sherlock didn’t want to talk to him right now, and he knew following him would only make it worse. They still saw each other, and Sherlock’s gaze lingered long enough for John to be sure that Sherlock was always seeing him, but that was all. That is, until the day John heard his parents say he could go back to school. 

He was waiting for Sherlock that night, cross legged on his bed so there was no way to ignore him. When he walked in, he glared at John for a moment before moving to find pyjamas. 

“I know you’re still angry with me,” John said. His voice was small, but clear. He’d practiced what he’d say to Sherlock all day. “I don’t really know why, but I’m not sorry I made you wake up. I’ll leave you alone, but I just wanted you to know I’m going to school with you tomorrow.”

Sherlock froze, staring at his dresser as if the words made absolutely no sense to him. John waited for Sherlock to say anything, he’d expected him to argue at the very least. A few tense moments passed, and still he didn’t say anything. 

“See you in the morning, then.” John said, the hurt evident in his voice as he slipped from the bed. 

Before Sherlock had the chance to turn around, John was gone.

\---

It had been fifty-two days since Sherlock had spoke to John. Sherlock only knew this because after they’d come home, he’d asked Mycroft what day he’d woken up. After that, it was just a matter of keeping track. 

The first time John had disappeared, Sherlock had honestly believed that Mycroft was right, that John had just been an imaginary friend, but every day John would pop up again. Most days it wasn’t for long, and he never did much more than say hello, but still _he was there._

Did that make him crazy? 

If John was real, where did he go when he wasn’t with him? _No._ He had to stop that train of thought right away, because John wasn’t real. He’d looked it up. He didn’t want to be a freak, or broken, or anything like that. John was an imaginary friend and if he ignored him long enough it would have to go away. 

But he didn’t, and Sherlock wasn’t sure if he was more relieved or frightened by that fact. 

John sat in the car on the way to school that day, but he didn’t say a word. He looked sad again. In fact, John almost always looked sad now. _If he’s a part of my mind then it’s just because I’m sad. Heisnotreal._

The teacher reintroduced him to the class with a fake smile and a promise that everyone would help him catch back up in no time. All of the students staring back at him looked about as pleased to see him as he was to be back.

It wasn’t really until the first break that everything seemed to go wrong. Sherlock didn’t want to play. He hadn’t had any friends before he got ill, and that hadn’t somehow changed while he’d been away. But, sitting off on his own had been a mistake. He realized that now.

John had followed him over to the side of the school building, where he’d sat down on the pavement with a book. The moment the teacher left to deal with another student the boys were back. The boys that had held him up against the bathroom wall and called him a _freak_ and each hit him in turn, all because he’d refused to let them copy from his test. Now he’d been gone for two months, what could he have done to anger them?

“We got suspended because of you, Holmes,” Sebastian, the larger of the three, spat as he walked up. “You told on us.”

Sherlock shook his head frantically as he closed his book, taking a few steps back along the wall, looking around for an exit. Not this again, anything but this.

“Don’t lie to us too, freak. We’ll just have to hit you harder to get the truth out of you.” 

Before Sherlock knew what was happening, the other two boys had Sherlock pinned back against the wall. He closed his eyes and turned his head away, waiting for the searing pain he’d remembered from last time… but it didn’t come. Instead there was a sharp cry from Sebastian, and the hands holding him to the wall loosened in surprise. 

Opening his eyes, he saw the familiar head of glowing blonde hair standing in front of him. He could see Sebastian just past John, nursing his blistering knuckles. 

“He burnt me!” Sebastian screeched.

“Wha-” Before the other two boys could even finish asking John had turned around and covered their hands with his own for just long enough to make them let go. When they did he took a few steps away, looking almost as shocked as Sherlock felt.

The three boys shared one frightened look before turning and running back to the playground. 

The two of them stayed there in silence for a few moments, Sherlock completely unable to look away from John. When John finally did speak, his words were rushed, almost frightened. 

“I hadn’t meant to hurt him that bad. It was just supposed to scare him. I didn’t hurt the others, not really anyways, but he punched me Sherlock. I couldn’t pull away or I’d have run into you.” John stopped, his eyes fixed on the ground. 

Sherlock opened and closed his mouth twice before he finally managed to speak. 

“You’re real.”

John’s head snapped up at that. “Of course I’m real! Why wouldn’t I be real?”

“Everyone said you were an imaginary friend. That I was too old for one. That I needed to let you go.” He stepped closer, speaking in a hushed tone like they were sharing some intimate secret. “But you’re not. You touched them and you hurt them. You couldn’t have done that if you were imaginary.” 

Sherlock was smiling now, nearly ecstatic by his discovery.

“ _That’s_ why you wouldn’t talk to me?” John asked, obviously not as enthused as Sherlock was. “Because you wanted me to go away.”

“I-...” Sherlock’s hands fell to his sides limply. That had been the point, but now John was real and that meant he’d been ignoring his friend this whole time. Not only that, but John had stayed anyway and protected him. 

“John, I… I’m sorry.”

John seemed to think about it for a moment before holding his palm up, smiling. Relieved, Sherlock brought his up as well. He just barely managed to stop himself from grasping John’s hand outright. 

“You’re an idiot, you know that?” John teased as the bell rang and he followed Sherlock inside.

“I know.”


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Years have gone by, but some things never change

Years passed by them, and before they realized it, Sherlock was celebrating his thirteenth birthday. The Holmes family home was filled to the brim with people, all there for Sherlock. None of them saw the glowing teen following behind him, and if they noticed Sherlock talking to himself, no one said anything. Well, almost no one.

“Stop it,” Sherlock hissed. It was supposed to have come out menacing, but he couldn’t help the giggle that followed as John continued to toy with Sherlock’s hair from where he was floating behind him. It was one of the only places John knew he could touch Sherlock without hurting him. The gentle motion never failed to make the boy smile, and John couldn’t stand how upset Sherlock got when he was surrounded by other people. He had to do something to calm the brooding teen.

“Don’t pretend you don’t like it,” John teased, twisting one curl around his finger.

“I do,” Sherlock said softly, shaking John’s hand from his hair. “But Mycroft is staring at me. I don’t know about you, but I’d like to avoid the lecture.

John pulled his hand away with a pout. No one really paid enough mind to realize that seven years later, Sherlock was still talking to his imaginary friend, except for Mycroft. 

Mycroft saw everything.

The rest of the party was spent with Sherlock avoiding small talk while John followed after him making jokes about the various family members to lighten Sherlock’s mood. It was eerie, the way people could see right through him. 

Eventually the party died down and everyone said their goodbyes. In the end John’s shenanigans worked out for the best, as it made everyone else believe Sherlock was actually enjoying their company, and the ridiculous gifts he’d been given.

“An RC car, John. Honestly, what am I going to do with that?”

They were back in his room, sorting through the mess of toys sprawled out on his bed. 

“I’m sure you’ll figure out _something_ ,” John sighed. He was playing with a hacky sack, making it dance through the air with flicks of his wrist. “Take it apart for science.” He shot Sherlock a playful grin, and was rewarded with Sherlock sticking out his tongue in irritation.

At the sound of the knob turning John let the ball fall to the floor with a plop. He relaxed only slightly when the door swung open to reveal Mycroft.

“What do you want?” Sherlock snapped, standing from the bed to grab the hacky sack from the floor. 

Sherlock had tried to get John to reveal himself to Mycroft, at the very least. He couldn’t see him, of course, but he could show his powers and make others aware that he truly did exist. No matter how many times Sherlock asked, John still said no.

“Just thought I would stop by before I head back to London. See how John was doing.”

“He’s fine. Now go away.”

“Touch today, are we?” Mycroft teased lightly as he slowly walked in, glancing around the room almost curiously. “You’re too old for this, Sherlock. I’m just trying to help.”

“Noted,” Sherlock grit out. “Now, get out.”

Mycroft heaved out a sigh before nodding. He dropped a card on Sherlock’s desk as he walked out. “I received a promotion,” he said simply. “Those are my new lines. If you need _anything_ , call me.”

When the door closed behind his brother, Sherlock heaved out a tired sigh, all his earlier playfulness now gone. He looked down at the bed for a moment before lifting the comforter and letting everything, all of the gifts, fall to the floor with a small crash. Without a word he slid into the bed and pulled the blankets up around him. John wasted no time before joining him.

Carefully climbing into the bed John let his arm rest over Sherlock’s waist, careful not to touch anywhere near his skin. Over the years they’d grown inseparable. John didn’t sleep, though he would close his eyes and relax like this, so it was safe enough for them to lie together with a blanket between them as long as they didn’t touch.

“You okay?” John asked. He hated when Sherlock was like this. Sometimes it felt like Sherlock was just a kite in the wind, one bad gust from drifting away from him forever.

Sherlock was quiet, his whole person seeming very far away. When he did speak his voice was small, almost like the little boy John had met all those years ago.

“Why won’t you just show him?”

John sighed, brushing a hand through Sherlock’s curls.

“I can’t,” he said gently. “People won’t understand Sher.”

“They already think I’m a freak.”

“I don’t want them to take you away.” 

Sherlock rolled towards John so they were facing each other.

“You wouldn’t leave me would you? If they made me go… somewhere else.”

John smiled, wriggling deeper into the blankets. 

“Never.”

\---

The next week they went to the library. it wasn’t odd for Sherlock to decide to study some arbitrary subject, and, as always, John tagged along. it wasn’t until Sherlock had collected a stack of books that John finally grew curious.

“‘The Elements of Ritual’, ‘Everyday Moon Magic’, ‘Cunningham’s Encyclopedia of Magic’? What the hell are you trying to do, summon a demon?” He grabbed the moon book, flipping through it curiously.

Sherlock snatched it back from him, looking around to see if anyone had seen the book float through the air. 

“I tried looking into chemistry,” Sherlock explained under his breath. “But there was nothing helpful. This seemed the next logical option.”

“Logical?” John laughed. “In what world?”

“In one where I don’t have to wear two layers of clothing to touch you!” Sherlock snapped back. Immediately his features softened and he shook his head. “I’m sorry, John. I just- I know it sounds crazy, but this, all of this, is crazy. And I’ve tried everything that makes sense. This is all I have left. _I have to try_.”

And he did, for months. 

He searched for anything he could get his hands on. It resulted in him setting the curtains on fire during a seance, sneaking out to perform countless ceremonies, and very nearly sacrificing a bird for a cracked idea he found in an online forum, (though John put his foot down at that). Still, it changed nothing. 

Six months after Sherlock’s birthday, he gave up. It would’ve been easier if he’d been angry, screamed, broke things, _something_ , but no. This was so much worse than that. 

When they first started doing research, Sherlock had made a list of things they could try, their options. The closer they’d got to the end of the list, the quieter he became. And when they last one was finished, the young teen looked to John with forlorn hope. 

He took a breath and held up his hand with tears in his eyes. 

John didn’t need to touch Sherlock’s hand to know it hadn’t worked, but he did it anyways. He was completely unsurprised when Sherlock jerked away with a hiss of pain.

“Sher, it’s ok-”

“Don’t,” Sherlock said, cutting him off. “Just, please. Don’t.”

Gather up the herbs and candles Sherlock threw everything away. He still didn’t speak as he changed and slipped into bed. After a moment he felt John crawl up beside him, settling one arm over him. 

“You did everything you could,” John assured him with a little squeeze. 

“I know,” Sherlock muttered into his pillow before turning his head away from John. When he spoke again all the pain they were both feeling was nearly palpable in his voice. “I did everything and I have nothing to show for it.”

John went to the roof that night after Sherlock’s breathing slowed and his body had relaxed. He waited hours for some sort of guidance, but there was nothing. For the first time she had nothing to give him.


	6. Chapter 6

As Sherlock got older, John learned to control more of his own power and found himself stepping in to help Sherlock more. It was normally small, innocuous things. Scaring bullies was the most of it, which seemed to be never ending, thanks to how confrontational Sherlock was with just about everyone other than John, but occasionally John would surprise even himself with the things he’d do for Sherlock. 

It took John a while to understand just why people didn’t like Sherlock, given he was the only person he’d ever actually interacted with. He just didn’t see Sherlock’s oddities as anything more than part of who he was. Eventually though, by watching others, John came to understand. 

One summer evening, John, who had taken a liking to classic literature, was laying across the bed, reading through a copy of the Grimm’s Fairy Tales when Sherlock got a call. 

“Sherlock Holmes,” he drawled, already bored with the conversation. His tone quickly changed when the voice at the other end started talking. 

“Seriously?!” He leapt from his desk, already pulling on his coat and shoes and he kept talking. “Yes, yes. Keep them there, I’m on my way… Ten minutes max.” 

Grinning like a schoolgirl, Sherlock grabbed a scarf and wrapped it around his neck. 

“Where’re ya going?” John asked curiously, sitting up in the bed.

“Down to the college,” Sherlock replied simply. “You can keep reading, no need to tag along. Just picking up a few samples the lab was going to throw out.”

“Ah,” John said. “That’s why you look as though it’s Christmas all over again.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Sherlock laughed, now ready to go. “This is much better than Christmas.” He flashed John a smile as he left. 

\---

Sherlock had been gone over an hour, and John was really starting to worry. It wasn’t as if Sherlock had many friends to stop and talk to, though it wouldn’t be completely out of the question for him to have gotten distracted at the lab. Still, he couldn’t shake the feeling that something was very, very wrong. He’d learned to trust those feelings a long time ago.

When John got to the lab to find it closed and empty he finally let himself begin to worry. Sherlock wouldn’t have lied to him, right? _No, definitely not._ Reaching out John could feel Sherlock, the connection between them working like a beacon, leading him to Sherlock. He tried to stay calm as he raced through the busy streets, but the closer he got to Sherlock the worse the niggling feeling in the pit of his stomach became. 

That’s when he found Sherlock, face down in the back of an alley.

\---

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock hummed softly, batting at the hands shaking him away. A sharp pain quickly woke him up as his fingers brushed against the top of John’s hand. 

“What the- John?” Sherlock looked around in confusion. They were in an alleyway, and he was absolutely filthy. The memories rushed back to him and he sat up with a groan. “Shit.”

“Thank God,” John breathed, sitting back on his heels. “What the hell happened to you?”

Sherlock rubbed the back of his head, it didn’t hurt nearly as bad as he expected it to. “I was jumped,” he said, pushing himself to his feet and checking his pockets. His wallet was gone, but it had only had his ID and a few notes. No, he was much more irritated by the slides crushed into the pavement around him. 

“Idiots,” Sherlock grumbled under his breath as he picked through the upturned box for any samples that hadn’t been completely ruined. “It took me months to get the lab assistant to save stuff for me!” 

“Sherlock,” John groaned, swatting his hands away from the shards of glass. “You can get new samples. Are you okay?” 

He was looking at Sherlock as if he expected him to keel back over at any moment. 

“Yeah. I’m fine, of course I’m fine. Why wouldn’t I be?”

“You were just knocked out and mugged,” John pointed out, shaking his head. He relaxed though, apparently convinced that everything was really fine.

And everything was fine, until later that night. 

Sherlock came upstairs to find John staring oddly at his own hands, inspecting them. 

“Hands, John. I know basic anatomy is a difficult concept at times, but I’m fairly certain that’s still the current nomenclature.” He shot the blonde a teasing grin as he hopped onto the bed with a box of biscuits. 

John glared at him, and shook his head. “Don’t be a tit Sherlock. I think something’s wrong.”

Sherlock’s chewing slowed for a moment and his head cocked to the side. “What do you mean?”

“I don’t know,” John said softly. He let his hands fall to the side and grabbed his book before climbing up next to Sherlock. “I was having issues flying and everything just feels off.”

“Maybe you’re becoming more human?” Sherlock offered hopefully.

“Maybe…” John murmured, but he didn’t sound convinced.

\---

Sherlock woke the next morning with John sprawled out across the bed, dangerously close to them touching. At first he was confused. John never really slept, so he was always up before him, but then he realized, John was sleeping. 

“John?” Sherlock whispered. He gave him a nudge with his arm from beneath the blanket, but he didn’t budge. 

Carefully he crawled out of the opposite side of the bed, using the comforter as protection. 

“John!” he said louder when he was a safe distance away. His heart was beating far too quickly. 

He had said something was wrong the night before, and now John was sleeping. Did that mean he was really becoming human? Or was something wrong? The fact that John had barely stirred at his name was not playing in their favor at the moment. 

Wrapping the blanket up over John’s back he gave him a shake, which finally managed to rouse him. 

“Hmm?” he hummed, his eyes opening lazily. “Sher? What’d you want?”

“For you to wake up… Why are you sleeping?”

John shrugged, wrapping his arms beneath the pillow and curling into a tighter ball beneath the blankets. “Tired.”

Before he could say anything else John had drifted back off to sleep. 

With a bit of theatrics, Sherlock managed to get out of school that day. It wasn’t hard to look ill when he felt like the world, as he knew it, was ending. Something was wrong with John.

\---

“Once you eliminate the impossible, whatever remains, no matter how improbable, must be the truth.”

Sherlock couldn’t help but mutter the familiar quote under his breath as he made his way outside. John had slept for most of the past two days, stirring only briefly when Sherlock insisted he sit up and move around. The glow and sparkle that had followed John around for as long as he’d known him had dimmed, and it seemed like John was fading with it. 

He wasn’t really sure how he was supposed to do this, _talk to the moon_ , but he knew John had done it before, so how hard could it be. Besides, if this didn’t work, then he had nothing. 

He walked out to the place that he’d met John as a child on the edge of their property. At the time, John’s fall had left a small ditch, like he’d hit the earth with enough force to leave his mark forever, but it had since been filled. He told himself that the star-like wildflowers that had taken over that corner of the yard had been put down by his mother at some point over the years. They were definitely not a supernatural mark left where John had fallen, they weren’t part of one of John’s stories. 

“Uhm. Hi,” Sherlock said awkwardly, looking around to be sure that no one would hear him talking to the sky. “I don’t, well… I don’t know if you will talk to me, or if you can, but John says you’ve helped him. He seems to think highly of you and he needs your help.” 

He bit at his bottom lip, looking around as if waiting for a sign. Anger and hurt bubbled up inside of him when nothing happened. _How could he have been so stupid as to think this would actually work._ His mind was already giving him explanations. John was an extraterrestrial being, maybe he had a connection with something that he just didn’t have, or there was nothing out there and it had been some elaborate form of symbolism on John’s part. 

Sherlock blinked back the tears prickling at the corners of his eyes and turned away, muttering under his breath. “That’s what I thought.”

He’d hardly taken a step before he felt it. It was like something was reaching right through him and seeing everything, the good, the bad, and the ugly. He froze, the sensation nearly overwhelming. 

_Sherlock Holmes. My little star is quite fond of you, so much that he’s given everything to ensure your safety and happiness._

The words echoed in his head, almost like a memory playing through his head. It was warm and soothing and he finally understood everything John had said about her. 

“What’s wrong with John?” Sherlock asked, his voice shaking slightly as he turned back to stare up at the nearly full moon.

_His light is going out._

“So what? He won’t be a star anymore?” There was a hint of hope. John could be human. Everything would be okay, it had to be, but his hope was quickly swept away.

_He’s dying, Sherlock._

“No,” Sherlock said shortly, shaking his head. “No, he can’t die. Stop it. Stop this.”

_He made this choice. He knew this would happen._

“I don’t understand.”

\---

“Sherlock!” John rushed to the end of the alley, just managing to stop himself from reaching out to grab him. 

He could see blood trickling down the back of Sherlock’s neck. Grabbing his jacket he shook him, begging him to open his eyes, but he didn’t.

John had never felt so useless or alone. Sherlock was hurt, and he had no way to help him. He could hear people and cars passing by out on the street, completely oblivious to the fact that the only person that mattered in John’s world needed help. 

His vision blurred, and he was almost unaware that he’d moved back to the mouth of the alley and was screaming at passersby to just _listen._

_They can’t hear you._

He nearly growled at the calm way in which she chose to speak to him, as if any of this was okay. “Then help me!” He yelled, stomping back to Sherlock’s side.

_It’s not my place to meddle with mortals._

“But it was your place to send me here, right?” 

John closed his eyes, trying to block her out. He could figure out something, he had to. Reaching deep within himself John latched onto the heat and power inside of him, grasping onto the light of his star with all his might. He’d been on earth so long it barely felt like it belonged to him anymore. He could hear her voice forcing it’s way through his walls, demanding to be heard.

_You can’t do this John. You’ll burn out your star by forcing it out like this. It will kill you in time._

He choked out a laugh, letting her words roll off of him. So? What did it matter if he faded out finally. Sherlock was a man now. He’d go on to university soon, there was no place for his imaginary friend. Sherlock would be fine without him. Besides, he’d rather die knowing Sherlock would continue living then risk losing him altogether. 

The sounds of the outside world had completely faded, his mind was so focused on the star within him, it was all he could feel. Pulling the power of his star to the surface John channeled it through him until he could feel the cool tingle racing through his limbs. 

When he opened his eyes they were glowing brightly, and without any hesitation he reached forward to cup the back of Sherlock’s head. It was sticky with blood that dissipated at John’s touch. An exhausting moment later there was no blood or wound, but John was left in a cold sweat, shaking.

_What have you done?_

\---

At some point during the explanation, a story told through flashes of what he could only assume were John’s memories, Sherlock had slipped to the ground. His gaze was focused on the flowers sprouted all around him. How could anything be so happy looking when his world was falling apart. 

_I can help, but you have to make a choice._

“Anything.” He didn’t care that he sounded desperate, willing to do anything to fix what John had done for him.

 _John can be restored in one of two ways. I can make him human. He’ll be whole and part of this world, but there’s a cost._ She paused, and Sherlock waited with bated breath. _He would lose all of his memories, including the life you two have shared._

Sherlock’s heart dropped, making him feel nauseous. That wouldn’t be John. It’d be a shell of a man in John’s body. Could he grow to become John? Unlikely, not in the same ways. 

“Or?” Sherlock snapped, “You said I had a choice. I want John, not part of him.”

_The other option, should you choose it, will restore John to his former self. Nothing would change. He would retain his memories, but he would not be visible to anyone but yourself, unable to connect with this world._

\---

Things had been simpler when they were younger. Most of their days were spent taking John on adventures through the trees behind his home. They’d play pirates and chase Redbeard through until they were so tired they’d flop back into the grass and stare up at the sky. 

“You really came from up there?” Sherlock asked one day, pointing up into the blue sky. 

“I guess,” John said, shrugging his shoulders. “I don’t really remember a lot. It was really quiet all the time.”

They laid there in silence for a few minutes, until Sherlock’s brother called out from the back door. “Sherlock, Mother said dinner will be ready in ten minutes. Get inside.”

“Kay,” he hollered back, letting out a sigh before sitting up and brushing away the bits of grass that lingered on his clothes. 

John got up to follow him, but suddenly stopped, his little face scrunching up in concentration. “Can they really not see or hear me?” he asked.

Sherlock stopped, looking from the house where the rest of his family was and then back to John. “I guess not. I mean I don’t think they’d ignore you.”

“Do you think they’ll ever see me?”

“How would I know?” Sherlock asked, chewing at the inside of his lip.

John nodded, as if that were an acceptable answer, before continuing to follow Sherlock inside. 

“I’m okay with it, you know, if no one else ever sees me. As long as you can still see me, it’s okay.”

\---

 _If you’re sure_ … The spectral voice made him shiver nervously, making him wonder if he’d made the right choice, if it was the one John would want.

“I’m sure,” Sherlock said with a short nod.

_I will not have the strength to do as you’ve asked until the full moon. It is up to you if you make him aware of your decision._

A gust of wind past by Sherlock and suddenly, he couldn’t feel her any more. Whatever presence had been there was gone and he was truly alone.


	7. Chapter 7

“I don't pretend to understand what you are talking about, or your reference to burglars, but I think I am right in believing’ (this is what he called being on his dignity) ‘that you think I am no good. I will show you. I have no signs on my door-it was painted a week ago-, and I am quite sure you have come to the wrong house. As soon as I saw your funny faces on the door-step, I had my doubts. But treat it as the right one. Tell me what you want done, and I will try it, if I have to walk from here to the East of East and fight the wild Were-worms in the Last Desert.”

Sherlock paused to look at the clock. It was quarter to five, just under an hour until the moon rose. Tonight was the full moon and he still hadn’t told John about what he’d decided, what he’d done. 

He smiled softly at the book in front of him. They’d just recently finished Grimm’s Fairy Tales and moved on to The Hobbit; John only seemed interested in fairy tales and fantasy stories. Sherlock assumed that was because he was able to connect with these more than anything else, maybe he’d been wrong about them not being part of one of John’s stories. 

His mind had just barely began wandering before he was brought back to reality by way of a pillow crashing into the side of his head.

“Oi, why’d you stop?” John teased. He was sitting up against the headboard listening to Sherlock read to him. It seemed to be one of the few things he could focus on without drifting back off to sleep. 

“Sorry,” Sherlock muttered, shaking his head. “Just got distracted.”

He set the book aside and looked up back at John. His glow was all but gone, and he had deep circles beneath both of his eyes, yet he was smiling and looking at Sherlock as though everything was fine. Perhaps he’d taken advantage of John after all these years, his loyalty, his love, and now they were out of time. 

“John,” he said, taking a breath. “I… I need to be honest with you.”

Sitting up, John leaned towards Sherlock. “What’s wrong?” 

“You know what’s wrong.”

John looked away and began picking at the blanket in front of him. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“John-”

“No, I’m fine. Really. I don’t know why you’re still staying home. You should go back to school tomorrow.”

“I talked to her.” The room fell deadly silent as John slowly looked up at Sherlock in disbelief. “Three nights ago, when you were sleeping. She told me what you did.”

“I did what I had to,” John replied tightly, looking away.

“So did I.”

It took John a moment to process what Sherlock had said, and when he had his eyes widened in fear. “What did you do, Sherlock?”

Sherlock opened his mouth, but nothing came out. _What had he done?_

“Sherlock!” John’s barely contained anger brought him back to the moment. 

“I-She gave me a choice John. I just had to make a choice. She said she’d make you better. I’m so sorry.” 

“What was the choice?” John asked, though it looked as though he already knew the answer to that question. 

So Sherlock explained the choices he’d been given. He told John he knew about what had really happened in the alley that day, and that he knew why John had sacrificed himself. And when he’d finished, Sherlock finally told John what he’d done.

“So I’ll be human tonight?” John asked. He was shaking, barely managing to hold himself together. 

Sherlock nodded, wringing his hands in his lap. John was silent, so much so that it took Sherlock a moment to realize tears had begun to slip down his cheeks. Shuffling closer he tried to come up with something, anything to help, but before he could John looked up at him with his tear stained face, looking utterly broken.

“I don’t want to live a life without you, Sherlock. I don’t care how many other people I’d have, I only ever wanted you.” 

“I couldn’t do that to you John. You have to understand that,” Sherlock begged. “You deserve more than me. You’ll have a normal life.” 

“I won’t forget,” John said defiantly, wiping the tears away. “I won’t. I’d like to see her try and take my memories from me.”

“How are you going to stop her?” 

“I won’t sleep,” John said simply. “If it’s happening tonight I’ll just stay awake. I’ll keep remembering, I’ll hold onto the memories. It’ll be fine.”

Sherlock bit down at the inside of his lip, hard, but nodded. No sooner had they resolved to spend their last hours waiting for their end to come they began growing tired, their eyes too heavy to stay open for even a moment longer.

\---

Forcing his eyes back open John found himself on a familiar beach, one he hadn’t seen in years. 

“Dammit!” he cursed, looking around for Sherlock. Apparently they weren’t allowed to stay awake and wait for his fate. 

He found Sherlock inside the castle which now stood in ruins. 

“I never came back here,” he said as John walked up from behind him. “After you left. I couldn’t do it.”

John let out a sigh. He reached for Sherlock, lacing their hands together and resting his head against Sherlock’s shoulder. “We should fix it.”

“Really?” Sherlock looked confused by the offer. “That’s what you want to do?”

“Yup,” John said, squeezing Sherlock’s hand gently. “For old times sake.”

They spent the night rebuilding the childhood they’d spent together, memories playing before them like a film on a screen. All too quickly they were back on the beach, waiting for the sun to rise. 

“I’m sorry, John. I’m sorry I put us in this position at all.” They were sitting side by side, waiting for the inevitable. 

“It’s not your fault Sherlock,” John replied, he seemed almost resigned with the entire thing.

“If I’d been more careful-”

“Stop,” John said, giving him a stern look. When Sherlock’s mouth snapped shut John turned towards him, shaking his head. “I was never even meant to be here Sherlock. I’m just glad for all the time we did have.” John tried to smile, he really did, but he couldn’t hold it for long, his calm facade threatening to break into a million pieces. 

“It’s okay, Sherlock,” he choked out, turning away to hide the tears that were beginning to flow. “Really.”

Sherlock wrapped his arms around John’s shoulders, burying his face against his shoulder as he too finally let go. 

\---

Sherlock awoke all at once. John was still asleep, looking completely human. His throat felt like it was closing up on him. He had moments before John woke up, remembering nothing of the past eleven years. 

He reached out, gently pushing back the short blond hair from his forehead. His hand lingered there simply because it could, and because he’d never been able to offer the simple gesture before now. 

John stirred and yawned. Sherlock quickly pulled his hand back and moved away, completely uncertain as to what might happen next. 

The moments seemed to drag on for Sherlock, his heart pounding out of control in fear and anticipation as John sat up and looked around curiously. He lifted his hands in silence, turning them over in front of him and curling them into fists in turn. Without a word he slipped from the bed and walked towards Sherlock, who had slowly backed his way into the corner of his room. 

He hadn’t thought about this, if John’s memories were gone, who was he? Would his memories be replaced with a story more preferable to the truth? Who did John see when he looked at him? 

Sherlock didn’t have time to work out the answers to these questions before John was standing in front of him, barely containing himself.

“Sherlock,” he said, his voice brimming with emotion. They were inches apart now.

Sherlock fought against the lump in his throat, refusing to let himself cry, not now. “John?” he asked. He didn’t know what else to say. 

John grinned, despite the tears brimming in his own eyes, as he held up his palm expectantly. Sherlock hesitated before bringing his own hand up. They held themselves there for a long moment out of habit, teetering on the edge of their past in that breath. John was the one to cross that line, pressing his hand to Sherlock’s and lacing their fingers together tightly. 

Sherlock gasped in surprise. His hand was warm and soft and he barely had a moment to contemplate what any of it meant before John’s other hand was on the back of his neck, pulling them closer, their lips crashing together, knocking Sherlock back against the wall in surprise. The kiss was short, almost careful, and when they pulled apart Sherlock was looking down at John in utter surprise.

“It’s you?” he asked in amazement, and John nodded, pulling away enough to wipe the tears away from his eyes. It was all so ridiculous he couldn’t help but laugh shortly. 

“Yeah. It’s me. All me.” 

“But I thought she said-”

“She did. When you left the dream she was there. It was a test, that’s it. I’d sacrificed myself for you, and she wanted to know you’d make the same choice I guess.”

Sherlock raised his eyebrows in surprise at that. “A test. All of that was a test?”

“Well yes, and no. I mean I was dying, and she did have to do something, she just left out she could make me human _and_ let me keep my memories.”

“So letting you go, that was the right answer then?” 

“I guess so.”

Sherlock looked absolutely exhausted, the stress of the past few days finally lifting from his shoulders. He smiled down at John before cupping the side of his face and pulling him into another kiss. It was slower this time, making up for everything they’d almost lost.

“So what now?” John asked when they’d finally broken away again. “I mean aren’t people going to wonder where I’ve come from? Don’t I need, like, papers and stuff?” 

“Ah,” Sherlock breathed, breaking away from John to dig through his desk drawer. When he’d found what he was looking for he held it up in triumph, grinning at John. “I think it’s time to call in a promise.”

John laughed, recognizing the business card, and collapsed onto the bed with a huff. “Tell him I say hello.”

“Oh I will,” Sherlock promised, dialing the number. The phone rang out once before it was answered. 

“Hello, brother dear.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In case there is any confusion, the quote is from The Hobbit, and obviously not mine. 
> 
> This little story is done. I really enjoyed writing it and it has quickly became one of my favorite stories so far. 
> 
> I hope you all enjoyed it as much as I did. <3

**Author's Note:**

> ShellysBees on tumblr and twitter...
> 
> Hit me up if you want me to make your fandom dreams a reality(or at least a fictional reality).


End file.
